


After the wall, against the pillar

by chaoticlivi



Series: After the wall, against the pillar [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Other, Podfic, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-31 09:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Aziraphale still thinks about that incident in the former Satanic convent. Now a podfic!





	After the wall, against the pillar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragingrainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragingrainbow/gifts).

> Heavily inspired by Ragingrainbow on the Ineffable Husbands Bingo Discord Server! I'm using it for my Bingo prompt, "Slow Burn".
> 
> I'm never precisely sure how to categorize this pairing. I did both M/M and Other because people see it differently.
> 
> Beta'd by Lex (argentconflagration). Thank you Lex!
> 
> Download the audio version directly from here: [Google](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1QO_BPXRDf9fBdEn5P0BOEpfcduZ9BlMN/view?usp=sharing), or [Kiwi6](http://kiwi6.com/file/rvqxg02ywe), or listen in the player below.

Crowley is lost in thought, restlessly sipping wine and eyeing the patterns on the rug, when Aziraphale taps him on the shoulder from the side.

They’ve been through dinner and dessert and hours of chit-chat, and Aziraphale had decided it’s time to go sort some volumes in the back room. Crowley had been Lounging, but a few minutes ago had decided it’s time to be Lurking. He’s been pacing slowly along the circular rug, which is bordered by large pillars.

Crowley almost jumps. Aziraphale can spend days back there; it can’t have been more than an hour.

“Sorry, but I do believe there may be a...discussion we never finished.” Aziraphale is fidgety, fretting with his hands.

Crowley does not move away. “What? When was that?”

Aziraphale approaches even closer now, gesturing wordlessly for the wine glass. It occurs to Crowley that he could ignore the gesture and keep drinking, but he doesn’t want to, and he hands over the glass. Aziraphale miracles it away, probably onto his desk. “You didn’t have to freeze that woman at the convent, you know.”

“The nun? Are you still on that?” Crowley manages to ask, frowning. Is he seriously going to get lectured about this after _ everything_? There is, though, something inviting about Aziraphale’s eyes in the soft gold light of the bookshop after dark.

“Well.” Aziraphale starts to lift his hand. He hesitates (what is happening? Crowley wonders) and finally brings it to Crowley’s chest (oh-- okay, okay, go ahead, angel), pushing until he’s backed against a pillar (this must be important). “She was running away,” Aziraphale says. “She was no threat. I’m sure we could have found her afterward.”

Crowley could argue, but he’d rather glance down at Aziraphale’s hand on his chest and figure out what’s going on here. “After…?”

Aziraphale brings his other arm up, slowly removing Crowley’s glasses from his eyes. Crowley watches, slack-jawed; when there is no objection, Aziraphale tucks them into his pocket. “We were discussing your, ah, nature.” Aziraphale has not removed his hand from Crowley’s chest (which is perfectly fine) and seems to be asking him to stay in one place, though he isn’t making consistent eye contact. He seems to be observing Crowley’s throat. And lips, perhaps.

“Oh. Yeah, right, I was reminding you of how...ah. ‘M not _ nice,_” Crowley says. He brings a hand up to Aziraphale’s arm, and _ that _ garners intense eye contact. It’s like Aziraphale thinks he’s being asked to stop the touching. Instead, Crowley holds him there.

A beat passes. Aziraphale twitches a little smile and takes Crowley’s collar lapels in his fists, curling his fingers carefully into the fabric, pulling Crowley’s head and shoulders ever so slightly closer (yes, good) even as his lower back is pressed against the pillar (by Aziraphale’s body, his closeness). It’s a gentle imitation of what happened that day at the convent.

“And you were doing it in a rather not-nice manner,” Aziraphale continues, an entirely toothless kind of reproach in his voice.

Crowley swallows the urge to lick his lips (and kiss Aziraphale). “That was the point, after all,” he answers, shrugging (very coolly, not at all nervously).

“But Crowley, you know...I wasn’t afraid of you.” He’s pressing them flush together now, front to front. Never in six thousand years has Crowley felt a heat like this. He puts his arm around Aziraphale’s back, encouraged by his hooded eyes. Crowley's a demon. He knows that expression. It's _desire_.

“It wasn’t about scaring you. It was about…” What was it really about? “Emphasis,” Crowley attempts. That’s not quite it. The electricity between them is very distracting.

“And, indeed, I may have needed that emphasis.” Once again, they’re nose-to-nose. “There’s still something else you should know, however.”

“...Ssssure?”

Aziraphale smells like his cologne, and wine, and the cinnamon cake they had for dessert. “I was not uncomfortable.”

“You already said that,” Crowley whispers.

“I only said I was not frightened.”

Aziraphale is staring from Crowley’s eyes to his lips to his eyes again.

“...Say it, angel.”

“Crowley. I...” He pauses, peers off to each side in a rather familiar way.

“You can tell me. Nobody’s near.” To make his point, Crowley closes his eyes and senses. No ethereal or occult forces anywhere near the building. “No one’s listening.” The truth is, they haven't caught anyone listening since the Armageddon That Wasn’t. It’s hard to shake off the caution when you’ve spent six thousand years employing it, however.

When Crowley opens his eyes again, Aziraphale is biting his lip, and then he wets it just a tiny bit with his tongue. (Oh. Ooohhh.) “Alright. I _ very _much enjoyed being that close,” he whispers at last, and lowers both of his hands, resting them instead on each side of Crowley’s waist. “To you,” he adds. Emphasis.

Crowley can neither hold back a grin nor figure out the appropriate thing to say next.

He’s gathering the courage to close the last few agonizing centimeters when Aziraphale asks, with eyebrows arched hopefully, “Ah...what about you?”

“It-- I-- yeah,” Crowley stammers. “Yeah, in a way, that’s what it was all about in the first place, I guess.”

“And what about,” Aziraphale nods down to where they’re pushed together, “this?” As if to emphasize, he gives Crowley a squeeze.

Truthfully, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s going to explode or implode with all the sensory input going on here, but if this is what does him in, it’ll be a good way to go. “S’nice,” he manages.

A smile. They are so, so close to each other that Crowley can feel the heat of that smile. “You said you don’t like nice,” Aziraphale says, and there is something suggestive to his voice.

“No, no. _ I’m _ not nice. I still - I can still enjoy things that you could describe that way, sometimes.”

At last, Aziraphale connects their lips, the touch of his mouth warm and soft, and it’s all too brief.

There is a pause, wherein they both exhale. “Was that too forward?” Aziraphale asks.

Much to Crowley’s chagrin, his voice comes out fragile. “I’m not sure that’s possible, angel,” he says, gulping. Tears could come if he let them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and kisses him much more soundly. Crowley feels the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue brush against his lips and answers it, shyly at first, with his own. It doesn’t take long for Crowley to lose himself, though, winding himself into Aziraphale’s arms and kissing their lips swollen.

There’s another brief interlude when Aziraphale is smiling too widely to keep going, his face lit up like the break of dawn. “I admit, it would have been dreadful timing before, but I _ have _been craving that,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

Crowley grins, pulls Aziraphale back in, and peppers kisses all over his face.


End file.
